


Let Me Go

by karachix



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-06 23:17:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karachix/pseuds/karachix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A song lyric fic. The song Hero by Family of the Year. Post-Reichenbach in which John finds threads of Sherlock where he doesn't want them to be. Everywhere. Not beta-ed or brit-picked, sorry!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Let Me Go

**Author's Note:**

> All characters and rights belong to creators of Sherlock the tv show, Moffat and Gatiss. Most importantly, Sherlock belongs to Sir ACD. This work is simply a product of my mind, no harm intended.

"You're being an idiot," the skull berated.

"Practically everyone is," John replied.

"Well then, you're in the Anderson class of idiots," it continued.

"Ta! I don't lower the IQ of the entire street," John retorted.

John was sitting in his chair, talking to the skull that Sherlock claims was a friend of his. John's already past the point of pretending he was okay. Talking to the skull was better than dealing with  _that._ By  _that_ , John means the image of Sherlock standing in front of him. 

"Pretending I don't exist and talking to a skull isn't a good coping mechanism, John" a deep baritone remarked.

John sighed and rubbed his eyes as if irritating the hell out of his eyelids would will the image away.

"John."

"What?!" John snapped.

"You need to sleep. Your eyes are ringed with dark circles. Judging by their color and your pale skin, it's quite clear that you are suffering from insomnia. There's also the obvious symptoms of sleep deprivation. Are the Afghanistan nightmares back?"

John has to clamp his lips shut to keep from gasping. Even his imaginary Sherlock is brilliant, John must be quite far off the deep end.

"No."

"You're lying," Imaginary Sherlock asserted.

"Well, you're dead. You don't get to tell me what to do."

A hint of annoyance flashes by Imaginary Sherlock's face.

"You don't believe that," Imaginary Sherlock remarked quietly.

A broken sob escapes John's lips.

"Sherlock, I-" John begins.

"Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side, John. You've lost weight-"

"Damn my weight!" John shouts.

"Let me go," Sherlock continues. "I'm dead, John."

"No, Sherlock," John replies after a few steadying breaths. "Just one more miracle. Please."

For a moment, something akin to pain flickers on Imaginary Sherlock's face.

"I can't accomplish the impossible, John." Imaginary Sherlock declared.

Imaginary Sherlock begins to fade.

"No!!" John shouts. His hand darting out to catch the remnants of his best friend, something he has failed to do twice now. The image of Sherlock fades completely leaving John's hand uselessly grasping at air.

Resigned, John sits back down. He doesn't cry. Instead, he concentrates on not thinking. John likens what he feels to what Sherlock must feel on a daily basis- his mind whirring with things he doesn't want to think about. John closes his eyes. He thinks of anything, everything that is **not** Sherlock. 

Anderson. Sally. Mycroft, for God's sake.

It doesn't work. Like a broken record. A graffiti-ed wall. The words keep repeating themselves in John's mind.

Neverending.

Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.  **Sherlock.**


	2. I don't want to be your hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imaginary Sherlock has the same effect on John as real Sherlock does. He can waltz into John's mind and make everything else seem insignificant in comparison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The links should pop up in another window, darlings. Click away for Benedict Cumberbatch as the angel Islington.

_"Save me! Please!" the soldier yelled as he clutched what was left of his large intestine._

_John drew in a quick breath. The hot and sweltering air scorched his lungs reminding him that he was still in Afghanistan._

_"I'll try," John replies tersely as he applied pressure to the gaping wound in the soldier's abdomen._

_The injured soldier was young, but still somewhat experienced as he held the rank of second lieutenant, judging by his badge. After overcoming the initial panic of his body being strewn across the desert, the second lieutenant went into shock, remaining quiet, his eyes pleading. His eyes, John thought, are the color of gunmetal. How ironic._

_John knew the soldier was a lost cause. Supplies were running dangerously low and given the intestines surrounding him, John knew the soldier wouldn't make it._

_"Dammit! I'm no good, aren't I?" the soldier asked, his eyes closing in resignation._

_"I'm afraid not," John tells him, calmly anticipating the bargaining and tears that usually come at this point._

_"You've done well, Doc. You at least looked at me. Don't look like that, if I'm going, I'm going like a man. No crying on my watch."_

_"As a man. You're going as a man," John corrects. War is terrifying, he thinks. War forces young boys to become men. John stares intently at the soldier, determined to remember him and his gray eyes which held subtle panic and reckless bravery._

_One last cursory glance at the soldier was enough for John to know. It's time. John saw the hitch of the jaw, the relaxing of the muscles, the young man has passed on, quietly._

_John crouched next to the soldier's head. "[May Christ recieve thy soul](http://ohmysaintedpyjamas.tumblr.com/post/45480875842/neil-gaiman-posted-a-link-to-benedict-singing-in)," John whispers in his ear._

_"Oh, John. Sentimental as always," the soldier rasps, his pained voice now a baritone, similar to **his.**_

_John gasps and recoils as the soldier opens his eyes. The gunmetal gray was gone, replaced by a striking electric blue. The blue eyes were all-seeing. John felt sick. He backtracks and turns to run..._

_  
_John sits straight up in his bed. He draws in a deep breath. The air was cold and polluted, London, he reminds himself. It's been two weeks since Sherlock jumped. He jumped, John reminds himself. He didn't die.

It's too silent in 221B. There were no experiments being conducted. No violin-playing. No talkative consulting detective. No Sherlock. 

A gnawing pain in John's stomach reminds him to go eat breakfest and take his medication. He swings his legs over to the side of the bed and grabs his cane. The darn psychosomatic limp was back. John hobbles into the kitchen, grabbing a piece of toast without looking too closely at the too empty tables. He chews and swallows mechanically, it wasn't like he could taste it anyways. The row of medication lining the counter seemed to taunt John. An ever present reminder of his stupidity. 

The week Sherlock jumped, John had gone on a self-destructive binge of a sorts. He had punched a brick wall for no reason until the skin on the back of his hands was jagged and torn, stinging against the cool London breeze. After walking back to the flat, John dashed to the medicine cabinet and grabbed whatever was closest. The living room was always the hardest, it was filled with _him_ and drew up poignant memories whenever John walked through it. John practically inhaled the ibuprofen and aspirins in his rush to escape to the safety of his room. It was just his rotten luck that the anti-inflammatory medicines he took would affect the mucus barrier of his duodenum, allowing acid to cause an ulcer to form in the first part of his small intestine. Therefore, for the next 4-8 weeks, John had to take acid-suppressing medicine. He takes it along with the meds for his limp. 

John walks into the living room. It's that time again.

"There you are, took you long enough." Imaginary Sherlock exclaims as if John was the one that left. 

"Sherlock, this needs to stop. You aren't real."

"Yet I'm the only one you talk to, John. You haven't left the flat since I died. You clearly need me here. It's why your mind decided to create me."

"I do not need you. I'm doing fine, Sherlock." John doesn't add that he needs  _Sherlock_ , not this flimsy excuse of him.

"Then explain to me: why did you need to use the cane to go from your bedroom to the kitchen? Yet, you walked from the kitchen to here without it."

"Short distance," John replies tersely.

"We both know that's not true. Talking to me isn't boring, John. It's not  _ordinary,_ " Sherlock spits the word out like it was poison, "You miss the danger, John."

"I miss  **you**." John mumbles quietly.

Imaginary Sherlock shuts up as if stunned by the concept that anyone could miss him. 

John takes advantage of the silence and continues, "I miss your deductions, violin playing, insulting, stubborness, brilliance, but most of all I miss  **you**. You make me forget about my limp. You take me on wild cases and chases. [You are my colleague. My friend. My best friend.](http://jamesmariarty.tumblr.com/post/46638685088) Sherlock, I lo-"

["Shh, quiet. ](http://brainyitsthenewsexy.tumblr.com/post/46026838790/the-angel-islington-shhh-quiet)Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and even if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."

"You're my hero, Sherlock. You  **saved** me. Just once more, Sherlock. Please."

"I don't want to be your hero. I am  **not** a hero." Imaginary Sherlock declares before fading away once more.

John crumples to the ground. He huffs out uneven breaths, clearly close to hyperventilation.

"I can't do this anymore, Sherlock. It hurts. I need you." John pleads to the seemingly empty room, unaware and completely oblivious to the gentle whirr of the hidden camera located on the shelves. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft...sneaky git, but someone has to make sure John doesn't harm himself.


	3. I don't want to be your big man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a meeting with Ella. He decides it's enough and wants to end the pain. Mycroft appears and saves the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: suicidal thoughts, suicide attempt, Mycroft being a bamf, Sherlock shows up (kinda)

John wakes up on the floor where he collapsed the other day.

 

Shit, he thinks, I've got a meeting with Ella.

 

John gets up slowly, then limps to the kitchen to get his cane. He walks to his bedroom, carefully avoiding Sherlock's bedroom door with his eyes. John gets dressed, albeit very slowly. He wears a plain, frumpy sweater and brown slacks. John pulls on his let's-go-on-a-date shoes, the one with Sherlock's blood on them, and gets off his bed. Without his cane, John walks to his dresser where he leaves his wallet and keys. He shoves the wallet into his back pocket and his keys into the front left one. John grabs the soft blue scarf he got from Molly and wraps it around his neck. He takes a whiff, knowing it was useless. Molly had washed the scarf clean of blood and _him_ before giving it to John.

 

All set, he thinks, time to head to the appointment with Ella.

 

-

 

“I dream that he is alive sometimes,” John confesses, though he technically wasn't sleeping when he saw Sherlock.

 

“That is normal behavior, John. Do you speak to Sherlock in your dreams?”

 

“Yes. I think...I think he wants me to move on, but I don't want to. I dream that one day I'll go home and it won't hurt. He'll be a distant memory that I revisit in drunken stupors. I dream that I can go on without him. I don't want that at all. I need to remember him, preserve him.”

 

“If preserving him is hurting you, do you think he'd want that? Dreams can come true, John,” Ella says as she stands up- signaling the end of the meeting.

 

Ella, John thinks, promised that dreams can come true- but forgot to mention that nightmares are dreams too.

 

–

 

Back at 221B, John sits in his chair waiting for Sherlock to show up. An hour later and Sherlock still hasn't appeared.

 

Time for desperate measures, John thinks.

 

He pulls the Sig Sauer out from underneath the seat cushion. A gun is light if you hold it the right way, John thinks as he twirls the Sig. Temple, forehead, between the eyes, or in the mouth. So many possibilities.

 

“Don't be an idiot, John” Imaginary Sherlock pleads.

 

“Don't force me to be one then,” John says, putting the gun down.

 

“John, please. This isn't healthy. You must move on.”

 

“I know, but it's the only way I can see you.”

 

“You do this again, and I won't ever show up again.” Imaginary Sherlock threatnens.

 

“You're right. If I do this again, I'll die and join the real Sherlock. There won't be any need for you.” John says deadly calm. He holds the gun up again.

 

“John Hamish Watson. You put that gun down or I'll resort to more distasteful measures.”

 

John freezes. The voice that just spoke wasn't Sherlock's. It was...

 

“Mycroft,” John says turning to the door, “How nice of you to show up.”

 

Mycroft was standing in the doorway flanked by two suit-cladded minions.

 

“John.”

 

“What?”

 

“Put it down.”

 

“Or what?” John taunts.

 

“He wouldn't want this. John, please.”

 

John loses his facade for a moment, shocked that _the_ Mycroft Holmes had just pleaded to him.

 

“Don't you dare mention him. You're part of why he'd dead.” John explains, calmly raising the gun to his temple.

 

“I'm sorry. Truly. For what has happened. I know you're lonely-”

 

“Lonely doesn't cut it. There is no lonely, just the absence of Sherlock.” John spits out like it was obvious information.

 

He hears a whoosh and the world fades to black.

 

Dammit, he thinks, as Mycroft's minion climbed in through the open window and clocked him in the back of his head.

 

-

 

_A phone call between Mycroft and a mysterious someone currently in Bolivia._

 

“Mycroft. What is it? Have you run out of cake again? You are aware that I am busy, too busy to deal with your post diet cravings.”

 

“Brother mine, have you seen the videos I sent you?”

 

“No, _brother_. Unlike you, I don't use my free time to watch cat videos.”

“They are of your doctor, brother. Do watch them for they might explain why he is now sedated and in one of my privately funded hospitals,” Mycroft says enunciating each word to ensure the person on the other line understands the gravity of the situation.

 

“What? You were supposed to watch over him, Mycroft. Why is he-”

 

BEEP.

 

“Dammit. The fat bastard.”

 

-

 

Why is John in the hospital? Why is he sedated? Drugs. Poison. Gun wound. No. No. No. He isn't that vulnerable or dumb. There must be a reason. A horrible reason.

 

The mind palace doesn't help the sharp feeling building in his chest, Sherlock realizes.

 

Sherlock grabs his laptop from under the motel bed and opens up his email. He didn't realize Mycroft had emailed him, the wifi in Bolivian motels were shit. There were two emails from Mycroft. Choosing the earlier one, Sherlock sits back and watches the horror unfold. John was crumpled, broken on the ground after talking to what Sherlock presumes is him.

 

 

"I can't do this anymore, Sherlock. It hurts. I need you."

 

Sherlock gasps. John was hurt. Sherlock hurt him. The sharp feeling bursts into a full on slicing of his nerves as Sherlock opens the second video.

 

He blinks he eyes rapidly, not processing what he was seeing. John was twirling his gun, then aiming at his temple, his forehead.

 

“No.” Sherlock whispers in horror. “Don't be an idiot. John, please.”

 

Thank god, Mycroft breaks in and actually saves the day, Sherlock thinks. John suddenly drew up his gun again. Sherlock's warning bells ring and the mind palace shuts down.

 

“Lonely doesn't cut it. There is no lonely, just the absence of Sherlock.” Sherlock hears John explain. 

Sherlock's heart beats wildly at that. The feeling is rapidly put out by the fear that John might do something dangerous. Not fun dangerous, but dying alone dangerous.

 

John, no. Please. No. I'm not worth it, Sherlock thinks.

 

He watches as Mycroft's minion knocks John out. They carry him, presumably to the hospital Mycroft mentioned.

 

This can't drag on any longer, Sherlock thinks, John is in danger. He's all alone in London.

 

Sherlock gets off his bed, packs up his few belongings, and steps out the door. He can't waste time sleeping when he could be taking down Moriarty's web and be one step closer to going back to John.

 

“I don't want to be your big man. I'm not good enough for that. You deserve much better, John. But if you will, stay alive. I need an audience to recount my tales to when I get back. Talking to a headstone is no fun. You know that,” Sherlock explains to his car as he steps inside.

 

“Wait for me, please. Just wait for me a bit longer,” Sherlock pleads to his steering wheel as he speeds out of the parking lot and into the empty streets.

 

 

 


	4. I just want to fight with everyone else

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John recovers and has a new purpose in life while Mycroft and Sherlock discuss his condition.

John wakes up heavily sedated. He feels sluggish and he can barely move his head. His throat feels like someone stuff a whole bag of cotton balls into it and jammed it with a sponge.

 

“Wa..ter,” John croaks.

 

A steady hands holds a glass of heaven to his lips and he drinks slowly. John eventually gains the energy to lift his head after downing three glasses of water.

 

“Thank-,” John stops, “ _you_.” he snarls at the ever calm demeanor of Mycroft Holmes.

 

“How nice of you, Dr. Watson. You are currently in one of my privately funded hospitals and I do recall saving your life. A little respect isn't asking too much, is it?”

 

“Saving my life?” John asks incredulously. “Letting me go would have saved me. This-,” he gestures to the multiple IV drips connected to his arm, “isn't saving. I know what I want, what I need. And you, Mycroft Holmes, are doing the absolute opposite. Caring is a disadvantage, you know. My dead friend, your dead brother told me so.” Mycroft's eye twitches circumstantially, giving away his apparent concern.

 

John ignores his deploring look and plunders on, “Sentiment will get you nowhere, I should be proof of that.”

 

“He wouldn't have wanted this, John. This isn't you. You are much stronger than this. You've seen people die on the battlefield for god's sake. How is one more person any different?”

 

John is shocked into silence. Mycroft had just referred to his own dead brother as a number. A bloody number, as if he could be just that. He was the epidemy of brilliance- a genius that made order out of chaos, a genius who will never be able to do that again.

 

“Don't you **dare** talk about him like that?”

 

“Or what? Are you going to hurt me, Doctor Watson? In your state, you can't even hurt a fly.”

 

“Watch me. I'll get out of this bloody bed and I will put you down, minor position in the government be damned.”

 

“You are a doctor. Killing people doesn't sit well on resumes.”

 

“I had bad days and no one has to know.”

 

“Very well, I'll leave you to recovering then,” Mycroft leaves with a satisfied smirk.

 

Oh no, John thinks. Mycroft had single-handedly manipulated him into recovering and John had promised to kick his arse once he gets better. The bastard certainly knows what he's doing, John thinks as he slumps back into his cot.

 

-

 

“How is he?”

 

“A hello would've been nice, brother mine.”

 

“A diet would do you more good. Answer my question.”

 

“He has promised to recover and in his words 'put me down'.”

 

“I'll help,” Sherlock says- a thank you somehow embedded in his tone.

 

“You need to be in London to do that. How is the pest control going?”

 

“Swell. If only your minions could work a little faster than maybe I'd be home by now.”

 

“They're only people, Sherlock. You can't expect everyone to operate without sleep or food like you and do their job efficiently. Stop wasting your time bickering with them.”

 

“I just want to fight with everyone else- their reactions are a temporary respite for my boredom. Enough about your minions. I want daily updates on John's condition, by text. I cannot risk our conversations being taped.”

 

“That is the least of your concerns, Sherlock. You want me to text because you despise talking on the phone and you despise it even more when you are talking to me.”

 

“Brilliant! You're deductions are absolutely amazing,” Sherlock drawls out sarcastically.

 

“How sad that you can only mimic the poor doctor's compliments, brother. He used to say them with so much enthusiasm, yes?”

 

A sharp intake of breath is heard on the other line.

 

“Remember the daily updates.” Sherlock thundered before hanging up.

 

BEEP

 

“Sentiment, dear brother. Why does it plague us all?”

 

-

 

Over the course of the next couple days:

 

_Able to move and get out of bed. MH_

_Is he eating? SH_

_Not much. Says dead people don't have appetites. MH_

_...ensure that he eats. Tell him that if dead people don't have appetites than he can't have his tea. SH_

_He said that he'll 'skin me' if I take away his tea. MH_

_Good. So he's eating then? SH_

_Yes. MH_

_Unable to locate SM. Located den of baby spiders instead. Require assistance immediately. SH_

_On their way. MH_

_Get him Twiglets. SH_

_Understood. Focus on the mission. MH_

_I am focused. Did he eat them? SH_

_He did, albeit giving me a weird look. MH_

_It's the extra weight, brother. It makes you extra unappetizing to look at. SH_

_Or maybe it's the fact that I am the brother of the dead man he loves. MH_

_[Sherlock does not reply for several days.]_

_He is getting stronger and relatively stable. MH_

_How do you know that? SH_

_Therapist said so. MH_

_Therapists are stupid. Tell me how you truly know. SH_

_He no longer carries around the gun and when he does take it out, it's unloaded. MH_

_He's a doctor. He knows other ways. SH_

_Not anymore, I'm afraid. He resigned two days ago. MH_

_Why? Why did you not alert me to his plight? SH_

_I don't know and you weren't replying so I thought you were busy or dead. MH_

_Very amusing, Mycroft. Find out and ensure he doesn't have the necessary tools to carry out his own demise. SH_

_I will and already done. MH_

_Thank you. SH_

_You're quite welcome. MH_

 

-

 

John Hamish Watson isn't stupid. He may be a bit suicidal and a bit more depressed, but he isn't stupid. Mycroft Holmes will not let that situation repeat itself. John is aware that the flat had been searched and any potential medication that could be used the wrong way was taken away. John still had his gun, but he doesn't load it anymore. He knows Mycroft would take it away if he did.

 

John hadn't felt the desire to follow in Sherlock's steps for a while now. He didn't like being incapacitated and treated like a toddler. Imaginary Sherlock never looked at him anymore. He was there to ensure John wouldn't do anything stupid, but he refused to talk or acknowledge John. Imaginary Sherlock's stubbornness was unparalleled by any other, but his dead counterpart. John hasn't tried to talk to Imaginary Sherlock since he left the hospital. He knows that the only way to talk to him was to prove that he was okay.

 

John quit his job at the clinic. It was too tiring to pretend he was fine around Sarah and he frankly had no desire to treat runny noses and high fevers when he could be clearing Sherlock's name. Without a job, John had to live on his meager pension, but it was alright for Mrs. Hudson fed him and fussed over him rather obsessively. Also, Mycroft probably handled all the bills for John's noticed their absence for a while now. That's good, John thinks. There's more time to research.

 

He found Sherlock's laptop under the bookshelf in the now cluttered living room. John had discovered his new life's purpose. He would spread the truth about Moriarty and how Sherlock hadn't been lying. Talking to Mycroft made John realize that most people regarded Sherlock as just another suicide. They thought he was a fake when he was the individual who possessed knowledge well beyond people's basic understanding. The evidence John needed was just a few clicks away. It was time to show people John's purpose in life, his reason for living, his Sherlock.

 

The laptop was locked, no surprise there. The surprise was in the hint- why was there a hint at all? Happiness. That was all the hint said. What could happiness even mean to Sherlock? Murders, locked rooms, poison. Cases, John types into the little white box. Cases were Sherlock's reason for living, it had to be it. **INCORRECT PASSWORD. 4 ATTEMPTS LEFT.**

 

Dammit, John thinks, leave it to Sherlock to set a limit to the attempts when he probably knew John would try to break in. Wait. Sherlock knew John would try, but he knew Mycroft might try too. Therefore, the password is something John knows and Mycroft doesn't.

 

Jaffa, John types into the box. Sherlock always insisted that his body was transport, but when it came to food, Sherlock would eat jaffa cakes more often than anything else. The notorious sweet tooth of the Holmeses strikes again, John thinks. He deflates at the message on the screen: **INCORRECT PASSWORD. 3 ATTEMPTS LEFT.**

 

Bond, John types into the box. Sherlock never understood pop culture references so John took it upon himself to show Sherlock the variety of Bond films that should be every Englishmen's gospel. He had deduced who the villain was and what their motives were five minutes into the movie, but Sherlock had sat in silence for the rest of it for he couldn't comprehend how Bond would always prevail over the powerful villain in the end. John suspects Sherlock had watched the rest of the movies without him, but he never commented on it. **INCORRECT PASSWORD. 2 ATTEMPTS LEFT.** John is starting to panic.

 

What gives Sherlock happiness? What can make him possibly happy? And Mycroft wouldn't understand? Think John, think. Sherlock has a website. The Science of Deduction. He doesn't mention what makes him happy, but he does have experiments and case requests. What experiment would Mycroft know the least of? The analysis of tobacco ash? YES. John types tobacco into the box. Sherlock always uses the patches and he would happily slaughter Scotland Yard for a cigarette sometimes. He also deleted the analysis of tobacco ash entry when he found out no one reads it for they rather read John's ramblings on his blog. It has to be tobacco, John thinks as he presses enter. **INCORRECT PASSWORD. 1 ATTEMPT LEFT.**

 

No, John despairs. Only one attempt left and he has no clue what Sherlock's source of happiness is. It can't be drugs for Sherlock has laid off them a while ago.

 

Happiness...the last time John remembered Sherlock laughing vividly was at Buckingham Palace. They initially laughed about Sherlock's lack of pants, but there was something else. John vaguely remembers telling Sherlock he wanted to steal an ashtray and Sherlock laughing at him, only to pull an ashtray out of his bloody Belmont coat later on in the cab. That was the moment that John realized he had gone and lost himself within the whirlwind that was Sherlock Holmes.

 

John Watson was not an idiot, he had realized he was in love with Sherlock the moment Sherlock was in danger with the cabbie driver. No, the moment in the cab with the ashtray made John realize that all of his happiness came from Sherlock. The only times he laughed were with Sherlock, everything amusing to him was amusing to John.

 

John shakes his head to clear the thoughts for a brief moment. Would an ashtray be a source of happiness for Sherlock? It was everything to John so maybe, just maybe, it is what gave Sherlock some happiness? Ashtray, John types into the little box with shaky fingers. The screen goes blank for a few seconds, throwing John into a semi-panic attack, before switching to Sherlock's home screen, a photo of the Chinese torture method of ling chi or slow slicing.

 

John pauses. He would've jumped and punched the air with joy if the sentiment of the password hadn't crippled him. Sherlock set a password that John would know and Mycroft wouldn't. His hint, happiness, was meant for John to understand, meaning Sherlock knew it was a happy moment for them both. He _remembered_. Sherlock Holmes, the man who complains about the lack of space on his mind hard drive, had remembered the moment of happiness he experienced with John. Sentiment, John thinks, how it brings out the pain within us.

 

-

 

Meanwhile in Venezuela, a very exhausted Sherlock was laying in one of Mycroft's safe houses contemplating how to get rid of the most annoying of the minions. He heard a buzz from his phone.

_Attempt to access laptop. Authorize? Yes/No [SH's laptop]_

 

Nothing on the laptop was particularly valuable or incriminating, Sherlock pondered. Mycroft was forbidden from touching the laptop and was told to leave it in 221B. With Mycroft's constant surveillance, no one besides John or Mrs. Hudson would be in 221B. Mrs.Hudson was terrible with technology so that leaves John.

 

Deciding there was no harm in doing so, Sherlock touches the yes option on his phone.

_Attempts being processed. Access to view attempts? Yes/No [SH's laptop]_

 

John certainly wastes no time, Sherlock thinks. He touches yes again, curious about what John thought the password was. Hopefully, John can once again cure Sherlock's boredom even though he was thousands of miles away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea where this is gonna go. I think John will become a BAMF because he has now found a purpose and being the ex- army doctor he is, John will act upon the information he finds. Hope you enjoyed~

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously, this is going to continue for the whole song. My very first fanfic guys :) I hope you like it. This arose when I listened to the song at 3 am and felt endless JohnLock feels. Completed an hour later.


End file.
